camelot

My voice mailbox is full, says the disembodied messenger. It's all Rich, beginning in the first week at Hospicare when he sounds so healthy, by turns frustrated and hopeful, still concerned about getting his computer up and running and still believing that, with physical therapy, he too would be up and at least walking, a bit, and needing warmer clothes because the snow will start flying before we know it.

And then, a few weeks in, there's an early morning message.

"I think this is the end, E.T.," he says, and then there's a break.

He's crying. And he's the only person who ever calls me E.T. because he thinks I'm far removed from this world, and maybe, just maybe, I can take him to my far-away land where it's never too hot and never too cold and no one gets too sick or too sad and love never comes to an end.

He chokes out the rest of his message.

"You have to write down...there are so many people to thank, how will I thank them all..."

He doesn't call much anymore. He can't remember how to use the phone, and his voice is weak. But today, lying in his Gerry chair in the Hospice garden, he appreciates the rare streak of dry, sunny, cloudless end-of-summer days.

"Camelot," he says.

Huh?

"Like E.T. land. Perfect 365 days."

He seems satisfied.

But his expression soon changes.

"What will we do when the snow starts flying?"

It would break my heart to answer, so I don't, and soon this E.T. won't know where to call home.

Candace